wicked games | aemond targaryen

𝚘𝚗𝚎

VALAENA DIDN'T REMEMBER her mother very well. She hated to admit, even to herself, that the memory of the woman with dark curls and warm eyes faded from her memory a little bit every day. Even her soft lullabies were fading from her ears, Valaena struggling to remember the melody as she sang herself to sleep every night just like her mother used to.

The words became less clear every day, with only one verse left in her memory.

Beneath the watchful eye of gods.

She sang under her breath in an attempt not to wake the sleeping ladies around her, but it was important for her not to lose another piece of her mother.

Where ice and fire meet in nods.

She paused as she struggled to remember the next verse, panic washing over her small features before it came to her.

Where banners fly with pride and unfurled.

She felt the tiredness wash over her as a yawn escaped her lips, reminding her how late it was but she had to finish the verse.

And kingdoms rise.

Her eyes drooped as another yawn escaped her lips.

Then face the world.

The words were barely but a whisper as she found darkness before she could utter another thought.

When she awoke in the morning, she was filled with the dread that she had forgotten something more while she lay asleep. Her eyes squinted as she lifted her arm to block the sunlight shining directly on her bed, if one could even call it that. The makeshift bed was nothing but wood and a small blanket to keep her warm at night.

Valaena could hardly complain. She was luckier than most orphans in a land full of cruelty and misfortune. Her mother had left her in good hands before her passing, ensuring Valaena would be well taken care of.

Even with the earliness of the morning, Valaena could already hear the other woman at work as the giggles and moans filled the place she called home. Despite only being a mere seven years old, Valaena was all too familiar with the concept of pleasure. It was to be expected, really, when the girl was raised in a whorehouse by its sole occupants.

It was preposterous when one really thought about it, especially when the women were all too protective of the young girl to even suggest the idea of raising Valaena to join in their profession when she grew old enough. But they had promised their close friend and confident who had worked alongside them that they would care for the girl as their own when her mother passed, and they had kept that promise to that very day.

Her mother had been a prized whore at their establishment, both by their guests and the whores themselves. She gave everything and kept nothing, making sure the women of the establishment were protected. Valaena could remember the somberness of the women when her mother had passed, and their comments that she reminded them so much of her mother with her dark curls.

The resemblance ended there, something Valaena would curse the gods for every day. Her features were nothing similar to her mother, who heeded from a small town in the far north and wore all the stark features of a northern woman. Valaena assumed she got her pale skin and eyes with purple flecks in them from her father, whomever he was. She had never met the man, and from what few snort snippets her mother would give her, she never would.

As Valaena rose from her makeshift bed, her mind drifted back to her mother's face, the fleeting image buried beneath layers of time and absence. She longed for the warmth of her embrace, the familiar softness of her voice, but all had were memories that threatened to slip through her fingers like sand.